


The Scars Souvenir

by uriexstyles



Category: One Direction (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Fluff, M/M, a lot of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 07:04:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uriexstyles/pseuds/uriexstyles
Summary: Brendon is eager to show Harry his new song.





	The Scars Souvenir

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this 50 Dialogue Prompts post on Tumblr: http://chrmdpoet.tumblr.com/post/162406220799/50-dialogue-prompts
> 
> #3: It's three in the morning.  
> #19: I've missed this.
> 
> Oh, and Impossible Year by Panic! At The Disco, hence the title.

“It’s three in the morning.” 

Harry’s soft protest must’ve fallen on death ears, for he is still being dragged down the stairs to the living room by his persistent boyfriend. 

“Trust me, you’re gonna love this,” Brendon reassures, or at least tries to, while shooting a grin over his shoulder. Harry still is not convinced that anything is worth him being up at such an ungodly hour, and his half asleep body somehow musters up enough energy to scream at him to drop Brendon’s hand and sprint back to bed. He can’t bring himself to do it though, solely because he senses this has to do with the reason why he heard faint sounds of the piano before falling asleep. Music is something that’s a huge part of Brendon’s life; creating it, listening to it, and most importantly sharing it. So Harry would be a terrible person to turn around now. 

Right? 

“Bren, there’s already nothing that I could possibly love more than you, so could it please wait?” Harry tries, but it only makes Brendon stop in front of him. A groan is stopped in his throat as a familiar pair of lips meets his. Since his eyes are already half closed, it’s almost too easy to fall into Brendon’s touch and become pliant by the palm pressed against his exposed hip. 

It’s all gone too soon though, or maybe it lasted for hours. Harry isn’t able to tell the difference in his current state. 

“Your cute words aren’t getting you out of this one, love,” Brendon mocks, while Harry longs for another kiss. But his feet begin to move under him again all too quickly. Just as he considers reminding Brendon of the time, since maybe it hadn’t been clear the first five times, Harry is sat on the cushioned piano bench that confirms his suspicions. He’s joined by the eager man seconds later, who’s fingers naturally fall upon the black and white keys. 

“Did you write me a song?” Harry inquires as he rests his head of now unruly curls on Brendon’s shoulder. They both move in sync when Brendon laughs quietly and cracks his knuckles for ‘dramatic, artistic effect’ as he likes to call it. 

“Just listen.” 

And that’s exact what Harry does. 

A low tune fills the room once Brendon begins pressing his fingers down in a rhythmic movement. Harry focuses his eyes on it, memorizing the pattern of the keys being played until his eyelids are too heavy for him to keep up. 

The sounds coming from the piano is a constant reminder that he has yet to fall back asleep, though. The song has cast a somber mood to the atmosphere, each note full with so much sorrow and poignance that Harry already resents whatever made Brendon reflect this feeling into a song. 

The silence that follows the last chord is deafening. 

Even with his eyes still closed, Harry can feel Brendon’s gaze burning atop his head. He lifts off of the shoulder he’s resting on and opens his eyes to meet quiet, but wild ones. He knows Brendon is waiting for him to speak first, waiting for an opinion. It’s routine for them, except it usually does not occur in the middle of the night. Or so early in the morning, depending on how the situation is looked at. With that in mind, Harry finally decided to comment. 

“You’re overwhelmed.” 

“Well, that’s a word for it.” Another laugh escapes his mouth and that’s Brendon, his Brendon, always masking his feelings with humorless chuckles and piano sheets full of notes that serve as a creative outlet. 

With a sigh, Harry stops Brendon’s hand from running through his hair and tangles it with his own. “It’s a beautiful song, B. Of course I love it, you knew yourself that I would. I just want to know what’s on your mind.” 

“You really do know me too well, don’t you?” Brendon starts, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Certain things from my past inspired this, and I stayed up all night trying to perfect it. So when I was finished I was just so excited to share with you, I couldn’t wait. It’s me moving on from those things, you know? All I want to think about now is you, and a future with you, so this is what helped me move on.” 

Taking a deep breath, Brendon finally stops rambling and glances at the sleek instrument besides them. Harry smiles once their eyes meet again, and brings their joined hands up to press a gentle kiss on the back of Brendon’s hand. “I’m proud of you. And I want to hear it again.” 

Brendon flashes a blinding smile and frees himself from Harry’s grip to straighten the music sheets that started to blow over due to the draft emitting from the cracked window. To anyone else, it would be an inconvenience and even an annoyance to keep having to fix them. To Brendon, it’s nothing. Harry had to grow used to hearing the constant crinkling of the papers, after Brendon opposed to moving the piano to a different spot. ‘It’s terrible luck, Haz, it’s already settled in this specific corner’ is the response he’d gotten the first time. 

Just as Harry assumes his previous position on the bench, the beginning notes reaches his ears. He even feels deep rumbles vibrating against him from where his head is next Brendon’s neck, and he knows Brendon is trying to piece together possible lyrics to accompany the tune. The humming relaxes Harry’s body further, and somehow the song has become more alluring with such a minor addition to it. 

“I’ve missed this.” Harry admits out loud, breaking the now welcoming silence yet again. And it’s so painfully true. With their busy schedules, they haven’t had a moment at this piano bench in quite a while. Sure, Brendon loves to play around with the keyboard every now and then, playing songs he loves to Harry and their friends just because it was stuck in his head all day. But it’s been months since Brendon has concentrated on making a full melody himself and asked for Harry’s thoughts on it. 

It makes Harry feel incredibly special, knowing Brendon only shares the music he creates between the two of them. Knowing this was a form of intimacy that made his heart grow incredibly fonder for the man now pressing kisses against his forehead as he falls asleep on his shoulder. Knowing it makes him fall even more in love with him. His Brendon. 

Finally, Brendon’s reply comes when he wraps his arm around Harry’s waist to keep him from slumping onto the floor and continuing his slumber. “Me too. Might even finally write a song for you if you keep asking nicely.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Harry makes the choice of sitting himself up instead of collapsing, and proposes a new idea. “Let’s make pancakes.” 

“Seriously? You were just about fall asleep on a chair. On me.” Brendon states, looking at Harry as if he has lost any bit of sanity he might’ve had left from being awake at such an odd time for him. The look only gets worse when Harry just lets out a short giggle. 

“And who’s fault is that?” He innocently snaps back, glaring with such little malice that he can tell Brendon is holding in a laugh himself. He decides he hates Brendon for having the ability to stay up for hours at a time and write beautiful ballads and still look well rested. Harry would even be jealous that he held enough energy at the moment for the both of them combined, but it was needed for the pancakes he wanted that certainly weren’t going to cook themselves. 

“Fine, but I’m not doing all the work.” 

With that, they make their short journey to the nearby kitchen. Harry glances at the bright numbers on the oven that read the time and wonders when it started inching towards four in the morning.

This time, he doesn’t complain.


End file.
